


It's Hard to End a Life on a Good Note

by scaledventurer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaledventurer/pseuds/scaledventurer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dave. I want you to know that you weren’t… That none of this is your…”</p><p>You rest your head in your hands, pulling painfully at the dark hair full of cowlicks and curls. <i>Good. You deserve the pain. You're pathetic, taking this long. Just do it already. Time is ticking.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Hard to End a Life on a Good Note

**Author's Note:**

> This is about suicide, self harm, and depression.
> 
> :/
> 
> I had completely forgotten that this even existed. I want to share it though, and write a continuation that makes me feel better instead of bringing me back to these dark ideas. Yep, it sure is another sad, short, probably very ooc, johndave fic that no one asked for.
> 
> Please don't read this if you even THINK it'll bring you down! I don't want you to get hurt..
> 
>  
> 
> Not that my writing is good enough to _make_ you feel anything. Just. Be careful. :x 

“Dave. I want you to know that you weren’t… That none of this is your…” You rest your head in your hands, pulling painfully at the dark hair full of cowlicks and curls. _Good. You deserve the pain. You're pathetic, taking this long. Just do it already. Time is ticking._

Right now you are sitting on the edge of the full sized bed, speaking to no one. You were just trying to decide what to write down. Not every suicide has a goodbye, but your aviator clad boyfriend deserved one. Something to make his hurt less, if possible. But you weren't sure what to say... It's hard to end a life on a good note. You feel kind of guilty, knowing that the bed you’re sitting on will have one less warm body at night. You feel so guilty, but it’s not enough, you can’t take this anymore.

Dave had tried so hard to help you, hugging and running his hand in soothing circles on your back when you cried. _Pathetically I might add._ It shattered his aloof demeanor that he had built up, but he didn’t care. Or at least he said so. Right now he’d even gone out in search of ingredients to your favorite meal. He was going to cook for you and the grocery store wasn’t very far away so he bundled up and left. Promising to return soon. Which meant you only had a little bit of time to make this work. Turning your head from the carpeted floor the pile of pills lounging on your bedside table you took a shaky breath.

You were sorry. You truly were. But you just couldn’t take it anymore. The dark _thing_ that plagued your mind and made getting out of bed seem like the Mount Everest of the day. It’s called depression, and it’s different for everyone. For you, you had the pleasure of your own voice mocking every single one of your actions. Brushing your teeth? _Wow, you dumb fuck you probably didn’t even do that right._ One time, you had tried making cereal and all was well until you dropped your spoon on the floor. That’s it. That’s all that happened. But you stared at it and stared at it until your eyes teared up because _you were just that fucking pathetic and weak. You couldn’t even do that right._ Dave had come home to you sobbing grossly in the kitchen trying to explain in broken sentences and choked up words about spoons and weakness.

That’s when he made you get help. Emphasis on made. Because why spend money and time and effort on you? You were literally the scum of the earth with a boyfriend who miraculously didn’t dump your sorry ass out on the street. He had to fill out the paper work because your hand was weak and writing wonky things instead of ‘John Egbert.’ Dave sent glances at you, probably just as disgusted with your pitiful state of being as you were. So that was that. You were signed up to see a counselor and she suggested going to a hospital. There was no way in hell they’d stick you in there. Dave was ready and willing to take you to the mental hospital, or behavioral health center. You begged and pleaded, bargaining for your right to get better with just therapy. He was reluctant, but unwilling to _make_ you go there. So you didn’t.

Eventually a psychiatrist was involved and you were put on a drug, an ‘antidepressant’ to help. They didn’t do much. But there wasn’t much left to help at that point. What were you hurting over? Nothing. Your Dad was the perfect example of a father. Father of the year. Of the millennium even. He even offered to come down and help, but you rejected the idea. When your dad offered, you blanched and Dave turned down the offer for you. You couldn’t stand for your dad to see his son reduced to this, it was bad enough Dave had to. You could tell that your boyfriend was tired of you too. He had told your father on a separate occasion that “he could handle it.” Not him. It. Meaning you. There it was. The truth. You really were a burden on everyone, your nasty thoughts had been and were still spot on.

Now you were allowed to hate yourself, and you did it well. You hated your blue eyes, black hair, and stupid glasses. You hated how you looked and how you talked and how Dave deserved someone who would kiss back with more conviction. You loved him, still do. But it felt like an echo. Everything aside from the hate felt like an echo of what it should’ve been. Jokes that would've had you cracking up just kind of made you nod your head. Yes. That joke was good. If I could feel properly, I would indeed be snorting. Wow, you don't even sound _like_ you anymore.

It wasn’t fair to everyone else. They were friends with John, not whatever flimsy husk of a guy you were now. That, coupled along with the fact that you were too weak to endure another second of that ugly, hateful feeling seeping its way into your bones, was why you were here. Sitting on the bed, pills nearby, and a razor blade for good measure. You sure as hell didn’t want to fuck this up. Sliding the pills into your cupped hand, you dropped them from hand to hand, watching them fall and fall again. Should you have water for this? Or were you supposed to choke? You hadn’t done much research on this subject.

Deciding against the water, you swallowed all the pills you had scrounged up. The painkillers, the antidepressants, everything. It was a dry and unpleasant process, with your saliva not providing nearly enough lubricant for the job. You didn’t feel any different. Not really. Apparently it was time for the backup plan. This time, you pulled back the gray patterned covers and slid your legs into bed. Might as well be comfortable.

The strangest thing happened, though. All the hate, the blank feelings, the sad, the hopelessness. They were gone. The only thing left was this calm, nearly pleasant feeling. Serenity? You suppose knowing that this was finally, truly over did justify a serene feeling. No more hurt or hate or internal aching. It was like a soft sigh and a weight had been lifted. Living was hard and you weren’t cut out for it. Deciding to die made everything so much easier and bearable. Lying down in bed, facing towards the right side where Dave slept, you held the razor just above your skin. So. You just. Cut? Slice? And then your body would do the rest. You wondered if your blood would drain quickly or slowly, like a lazy red river.

Pressing the blade against a prominent vein, you always hated how easily seen they were, you dragged it across. It stung, but… Nothing happened. You were confused for a fraction of a second before red made its way across your wrist. Oh. You guess you will have to try harder. Gather up the strength you had left. Wait. You knew exactly how to get yourself worked up. Just remind yourself of all the times you’d fucked up. Of how you’d made other people suffer through your presence. Remember how much you **_hate_** yourself.

This time, as you pulled the razor over your arm you were crying. Crying and shaking with anger and the tiniest bit of relief that you could do the world this favor. Then you brought the razor blade down viciously. It stung more and lasted longer. So you did it again. Then again. And again. You kept at it until the slices were deep enough that you were making a mess in the bed. There was blood all over the soft white sheets, but that only crossed your mind for a second because the room was spinning.

You aren't sure when you stopped slicing and started clutching the blade in your fist and you don't care. Your eyes were closed and your body felt out of sync with itself. It was difficult to feel real. It was only when you heard the jingle of keys and the front door opening that you realized you hadn't written your note.

“Yo, John! You ready for some Strider Cuisine?”


End file.
